Hitching through the pages

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Christmas was a time to lay some things to rest, while contemplating what lies ahead, both figuratively and literally. I’m in the final pre-publication phase of my next book, with foundations in place for the one which follows, and many places to visit (although not in person). Still though, sometimes I wonder how I got here.

HHGG Whale

Four years ago I was homeless, and now I write books. The next – The Unfinished Literary Agency – is an anthology of twenty tales, all of which stand alone but tell a longer story together. The collection can be dipped in and out of at random, or read as a whole, making it effectively two books in one.

I’ve kept the dedications and acknowledgements simple:

For those who are courageous enough to tell their own stories, and for the ones who can’t be heard. And for those who read, and make the life of the writer a less lonely one.

To those who encouraged me to keep writing, friends, family, and other writers. And to those who like to explore and discover, who’ve listened to my stories.

I out-sourced the back cover text, which was written by another genre author:

These are collected tales from an author variously compared to the surrealists Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas, the horror writers Kafka, Lovecraft, King and Poe, and with Douglas Adams, Arthur C. Clarke, Roald Dahl and Paul Auster.

“A writer who can hold a black mirror to the soul, and who has a deep insight into the human condition,” these are stories of fairy tale fantasy, plausible and whimsical science fiction, near-future vision and surreal dreams, with drops of dark humour. Tales of post-human landscapes mix with everyday slices of life to tell a longer story with a dark heart.

“A weird and thought-provoking journey…”

I liked it, I changed nothing and no money was exchanged. So I asked if they’d like to say something nice “About the author”:

Steve Laker is a divorced father of two, living in a wonky studio above a coffee shop in a Kent village, where he writes.

His critically-acclaimed science fiction novel – Cyrus Song – was described by one critic as “Like the surrealist writers Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas, with a substantial nod, of course, to Douglas Adams, who can make the impossibly strange seem mundane and ordinary. Steve Laker pulls this extraordinary juggling act off admirably well, producing a very good, thought-provoking, page-turning, and also at times darkly comic read.”

This is the author’s second short story collection, with the first – The Perpetuity of Memory – described as “Like a Black Mirror for the page, these stories flit between dark sci-fi and psychological horror but are always underlined by a salient sense (and deep understanding of) the human condition.”

Steve Laker has also written an award-winning children’s book – A Girl, Frank Burnside and Haile Selassie – and continues to publish short fiction in magazines and online.

So that’s all nice.

The final stage is one last re-read of the whole book, before sending it off for a press proof, then it’ll be on various shelves in a couple of weeks. The next main project is Silent Gardens, and I have short stories in progress for various publications and a likely third anthology. Later next year, I’ll begin Cyrus Song II.

I’m fully committed, at least to myself and to writing, for the whole of 2018. That’s a nice place for a writer to be, but I’m very aware that in 2019 I’ll be the same age Douglas was. He once said, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

I got a lot of help from people I met along the way as a hitch hiker. Now, it’s the people who hitch with me who keep me going; the followers, the likers and the readers. So thanks for being here.

All of my books are available from Amazon and other book sellers.

Life beside the lake (by bus)

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’ve found myself somewhere I never realised I wanted to be, in a position where I could take some time off if I wanted to, but I don’t know why I’d want to do that. So rare is my current circumstance that I don’t really have a name for it: perhaps a forelog, that being the opposite of a backlog. I’ve got new stories lined up for publication over the coming weeks, allowing me to concentrate instead on a matter of the heart.

Lake fishing

As an aside, my family name is one derived from a profession: a Laker was one who fished on lakes, where a Fisher fished rivers. The matter of heart, is a book about some of the Lakers.

Meanwhile, there are two short stories in the sausage machine. ‘So Long and Thanks for all the Animals’ is a nod to Douglas Adams only in title. The story begins with strange carvings found in nature, and a device discovered by two school friends while metal-detecting in a woods. What if our planet was trying to give us a message, and the first thing we noticed was the self-harm marks it had made on itself?

‘The Long Now Clock’ is about a caretaker at the Long Now Foundation, which houses a clock designed to keep the time for 10,000 years. The story revolves around a conversation she has with her android assistant, about a message picked up by SETI. The two of them speculate on what might come, concluding in part that any visiting race with the technology to come to Earth would most likely be one so far evolved that they’ve transcended war. The story is mainly dialogue, as a robot and a human compare what it’s like to be each of two co-existing species, and of how each envies the other for different reasons.

Like my most recent short story, ‘Diary of a Teen in the Woods‘, “a metaphysical tale of the spiritual, subconscious world”, the next two have an element of surrealism, while retaining a plausible grip on science. They’ll be in Schlock web zine, where I’m pretty much a staff writer, and one recently compared with surrealist writers like Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas for Cyrus Song, and whose stories arealways underlined by a salient sense (and deep understanding of) the human condition”, according to one review of my anthology.

It suits me not having to punt work around, and Schlock’s editor has supported me as a writer from the start. Now that I’m better established, mine is a name which readers are used to seeing on the cover, and with over 50 stories accepted by the editor, they must like me. I know that I have favourite writers in the various periodicals I read, and I’d feel it almost a personal affront if one of them left their publications. Plus, I’m lazy, but only like all those other writers who don’t leave what’s effectively a house publisher, and who feel a loyalty to their readers.

All of which means I have a few weeks’ clear water, during which I’ll maintain my forelog but concentrate mainly on my next book. The book has become a well-known secret in some small circles. It’s the format which has caused me trouble: How to tell the story; how to write the book. But after much internal dialogue, I’ve come up with what I think is the best way to write the book as the gift it is, using the gift I’m expressing gratitude for.

It’s a book about two people, who passed through some noteworthy estates when they worked for the owners. They’re two people who may have gone otherwise unnoticed, if their son hadn’t become a writer. After all I put my parents (and many others) through when I was drunk, and now that our relationships are closer than ever, writing a book about them seemed a nice gift, made by the hands they gave me, and which I subsequently found out were for writing. So the book will be a collection of stories and anecdotes, mainly about the things my parents did and the historical places of interest they worked, and how that influenced me in later life, eventually to write the book, but it’s not about me. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be plotting it, writing the basic structure and beginning the narrative. It’s still pencilled in for publication in March next year, and I’ll have a second anthology out not long after, now with the working title ‘The Importance of Discovery’.

When writing has become my life, I don’t see any reason to take time off. This period of being ahead of oneself is like a busman’s holiday, and one taken beside a lake.